


Imagination

by MintJam



Series: Thoughts, asks, headcanons and ficlets [3]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Consenting Adults, Dildos, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, Sort Of, arguable character growth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21806506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: He doesn't understand how Alfie knows precisely how to test him; how to break barriers he didn't know were there; to reach into the darkest shadows of his mind and braid his fears and inhibitions and desires into a deliciously terrifying rope with which he can hang himself. He feels like he's fucking hanged himself tonight.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Thoughts, asks, headcanons and ficlets [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540363
Comments: 15
Kudos: 129





	Imagination

**Author's Note:**

> A standalone one-shot. Set somewhere in the future I guess. Could be read alongside my Live a Lie AU but not directly a part of it.

Tommy shudders and wonders exactly why he put himself in this position in the first place. How he's ended up naked in Alfie's bakery at one o'clock in the morning. Because it fucking hurts. Fucking, _fucking_ hurts. Which should come as absolutely no surprise because he saw the size of the dildo, didn’t he? And he had the chance to back out. Alfie gave him that option twice. And yet ... he chose not to take it, not to back out. Twice. Alfie's right. he's an overly-confident idiot sometimes and it's going to get him in trouble. _Fuck_ … the blunt pain is so intense he can't even breathe. He tries to relax, to tell himself it’ll ease. The problem is it’s virtually impossible when you know it’s only going to get worse.

“Shhhh,” Alfie murmurs, "s’just the start, ain’t it? Hmmm?” Tommy flinches and gasps as a warm hand strokes down his side, deceptively soothing. He adjusts his grip on the bar above his head. It’s a pull-up bar, held in place by two brackets, one on either side of a tall doorway between the open part of the distillery and a little-used storeroom. (That answers the question about how Alfie maintains his impressive upper body strength; 20 chin ups down here every day apparently). Tommy's arms are at full stretch just to reach the damn pole, fingers wrapped around the cool metal positioned directly above his head. His feet touch the doorframe on either side, raised off the ground as they are, each on a pile of leatherbound books.

“You subscribed to a set of enyclopaedias, Alfie?” he’d smirked when he'd first seen the two stacks of hardbacks in the doorway. "Yeah, well, nothing wrong with broadening the mind, Thomas. Besides, how are you gonna reach that bar without something to step up onto, hmm? Tell me that. You're only little aren't you?"

And so, after a bizarre and opaque discussion about imagination and relaxation, Tommy had indeed stepped-up onto the sturdy piles of books, having first stripped naked at Alfie’s instruction (because apparently that's the sort of thing he'll do for a mad Jewish gangster these days). Despite the improvised steps he'd still had to rise up onto his toes to reach the bar at the top of the door frame. But he'd done that too. Because Alfie had told him to. And, OK, because he also knew it left his body pleasingly splayed; slim muscles stretched favourably, spread-eagled in the doorway. He may even have allowed himself a moment of vanity, flexing his shoulders and clenching his arse for Alfie's benefit, smiling at the lustful growl it drew from the man's throat.

*****

It had all started as a stupid argument months ago, ostensibly about Tommy's excess of ambition. (In reality the whole thing had been about Alfie's desire to keep him from running off to a meeting, instead of staying in bed one morning in Camden). "Just because you lack ambition," Tommy had said as they'd bickered amicably.

"What's wrong with that?" Alfie had asked. "I've got everything I need right here. Least I would have, if you'd stick around for an hour."

"These contacts are important," Tommy had said as he'd wriggled from Alfie's grasp. "And _you_ might lack ambition but _I_ don't."

"Don't I fuckin' know it, mate. S'gonna get you in trouble."

"There's life beyond rum and race-tracks, Alfie."

"And I want nothin' to do with it. It's a young man's game, Tommy. I want to retire one day."

"Maybe it's not ambition you lack. Maybe it's _imagination,"_ Tommy had teased, but he could tell he'd hit a nerve.

"I'll give you fuckin' imagination, Thomas," Alfie had growled. Tommy had carried on getting dressed, disappeared off to meet Lord Something-or-other and thought nothing more about it. Until tonight.

*****

"So what is this, eh? Naked pulls-ups, Alfie?" he'd asked, still more intrigued than wary at that point.

"I'd rather call it _imagination_ , Thomas. Something I'm apparently sorely lacking..." Tommy had instantly picked up the reference, of course, the slight clearly not forgotten. He'd lifted his weight then — pulled himself up until his chin had reached the top of the door — and lowered himself down again, once, twice, three times. He might not have Alfie's bulk, but he's strong enough nonetheless.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you, love," Alfie had said from somewhere behind him. "Gonna need your strength for what I have in mind. Spread your hands wider."

Tommy had obliged, arching his back and his feet in order to widen his grip, making himself an X in the doorway. It hadn’t seemed too difficult to start with. “Mmmmm…” Alfie had hummed approvingly. “You look like a sketch by da Vinci. The Vitruvian Man. You know it?”

“The Vitruvian Man?” Tommy had repeated.

“Yeah…you know, the one. Shows the proportions of the human body. A man standing with arms and legs outstretched inside a circle and a square.”

“I know it,” Tommy had said, bemused and wondering where this was going.

“That image showed the perfect proportions of the human male. According to da Vinci,” Alfie had continued. “Thought I’d recreate it for myself. With you as the model.” Tommy had allowed one corner of his mouth to tip up at that. At the reminder of how much Alfie likes to look. To observe. To _study_ he might even say. He'd felt the man’s eyes on him, standing behind him in the store-room with a perfect view of his rear. Tommy's own view was the darkened distillery, where the rows of stills loomed like giant, sleeping sentries; a silent army of steel bearing witness to their game.

“Always felt it was missing something, that da Vinci sketch,” Alfie had continued and Tommy had stayed silent, well aware that his baker was working up to something … just baffled as to what. “Because a man spread-eagled so beautifully like that, like you are now, well, he deserves a little extra … _something_.” Alfie had stroked one finger down the cleft of Tommy’s arse as he spoke. “Something of suitable proportions. Don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Tommy’d answered, breathy yet succinct. His mind had started wandering, thinking of how Alfie might fuck him like this, in the doorway, with him clinging to the pole above.

“Luckily I have just the thing. Assuming, of course, that you are up to the challenge, Tommy?”

“I’m always up to the challenge, Alfie,” he’d answered coolly, which had perhaps been foolhardy without knowing the details. 

Alfie had chuckled softly as he moved in close, sliding something hard and warm up the inside of Tommy’s left thigh. "Oh, I know you are darling," he'd said. "Always so sure of yourself. Go on, take a look. Still think I lack imagination? Can you guess what I'm imagining right now?”

Tommy had looked down at the dildo between his legs, and … swallowed. It was smooth and rounded, nearly a foot in length and wide enough that Alfie’s fingers barely closed around its girth. _Fuck_. Alfie had merely continued stroking it up his thigh, under his balls and slowly down the inside of his opposite leg, the slow, deliberate movement giving Tommy ample opportunity to consider its size. “You’d look a fucking picture with this embedded between those beautiful cheeks,” Alfie had growled, low and lustful. “Beat the shit out of Da Vinci with this inside you. Yeah. You would.” Tommy’s vanity had been piqued, despite his apprehension, and that, perhaps, had been his downfall. He'd adjusted his grip on the bar, flexed his back, rolled his shoulders slightly. “You wanna take this?” Alfie had asked, rubbing the tip of the polished wood down the small of Tommy’s back, stopping at the cleft of his arse. He'd placed one hand across Tommy’s stomach and pulled him back against his chest, licking the shell of his ear as he'd promised, “I’ll even slick it up for you, let you stay in control, guide it in. Hmm?”

Tommy’s silence must have spoken volumes as to his trepidation, but the promise of control had been tempting. He’d swayed against Alfie's solid form behind him, attracted to the warmth, to the challenge. "You want to take it?" Alfie had asked again.

“Yes,” Tommy had whispered quickly, more a puff of air than an actual word, exhaled before he could change his mind.

"Is that arrogance or defiance talking, Thomas?" Alfie had asked, but Tommy couldn't answer. The truth was both or neither; he just couldn't picture saying no, however much he might have wanted to, couldn't picture admitting defeat. Alfie wanted this, Alfie had clearly planned it. And therefore he would do it. “There’s a good boy,” Alfie had said, kissing his neck, the hint of praise on his tongue awakening the needy butterflies in Tommy’s stomach. “You sure darling?” he had then asked. Unusual that, Alfie seeking permission again, but it had only strengthened Tommy's resolve. "Fuck off," he spat back, offended by Alfie's tone.

There'd been a pause thereafter, a self-satisfied intake of breath on Alfie's part that did nothing to quell Tommy's nerves. Then came the ominous squeak of metal against wood and he'd looked back over his shoulder to see Alfie screwing the dildo to another long bar, at a right angle. "Had these specially made," he had started to explain, calmly, like he was discussing some factory equipment. "Had to be threaded, you see. The wood as well as the bar. To hold it in position." When the dildo was snugly attached Alfie had lifted it up, holding the bar horizontally with the wood sticking up like an obscene inverted 'T'. "Hmm, perfect engineering," he'd hummed. Tommy had a moment to wonder how long Alfie had been planning this for (and who the fuck had made it) before he felt the bar being positioned behind him. Two clunks and it was fixed across the doorframe by unseen brackets, considerably lower than the first. The cold metal pressed against the back of his thighs whilst the wood nestled against the crease of his arse.

“Tiptoes, love,” Alfie had said, tapping each ankle in turn. Tommy had flexed each foot on its pile of books and pulled himself up slightly higher, but it wasn't high enough. "You can pull up now, too," Alfie said. Goosebumps broke out across Tommy's skin as he felt ringed hands adjust the wooden protruberance, angling it directly at its target. 

_Fuck_ , he'd thought, _not yet_ , honestly shocked that Alfie would do this with no fucking preparation at all, not so much as a fingertip. He could feel the tip of the dildo pointing directly up at his entrance, hard and immovable. He had pulled himself away from it by the strength of his arms alone and hovered, achingly aware of the fact that he’d impale himself the second his arms slackened. The hands behind him were twisting, slicking the wood. “There we go," Alfie had said. "See? You're in control of the slide, love. It's entirely up to you. Whenever you're ready." _Fucking bastard_ , Tommy had thought. _Fucking, fucking bastard_. If he hadn't been so busy considering his non-existent options he'd have been impressed at the ingenuity. The planning.

“I'll give you about two minutes till your arms give out,” Alfie had said behind him, voice calm and factual, like he was explaining the odds on a race. "Most people I'd give 60 seconds, but you're a tough little fucker, I know." Tommy had groaned, triceps aching, reminded of their significance. He could imagine Alfie's arms folded, intense eyes scanning his prone form and the obscene contraption he's so lovingly constructed to torment him.

"If I were you I’d use those two minutes wisely,” Alfie had continued. “To relax. Get rid of some of that tension.” Tommy had gritted his teeth in fury, his predicament increasingly clear. “Could consider this entire state of affairs an exercise in relaxation really,” Alfie had continued, voice lilting as though this aspect had just occurred to him. "Because tension is gonna make it a lot fucking harder." Tommy had wanted him to shut the fuck up after that, and yet it was strangely disconcerting when he did, the air too quiet, too pregnant, without his usual flow of words.

That had been maybe two and a half minutes ago. Tommy had held out until his arms shook with the strain; muscle fatigue overcoming mental willpower in a tragically inevitable victory. He’d looked up at his treacherous hands as he’d sunk helplessly onto the wood — the blunt force opening reluctant muscles like an agonisingly slow punch — stopping only when his toes reached the books.

And now ... now he feels the air shift behind him. He can sense Alfie’s subdued delight at his torment and wants, beyond all else, (beyond even the desire for the pain to relent) to withhold the satisfaction of giving voice to his plight. He calms himself with every fibre of self-control he can muster, biting his lip and breathing heavily through his nose as his body fights to open. After a few minutes he feels hands on his arse, squeezing the flesh, spreading his cheeks. “There you go,” Alfie says gently, smearing the tight stretch of muscle with a slick finger, tracing where the dildo pierces him. Tommy can't help but clench at the touch, cursing softly as the involuntary reaction brings with it a fresh spike of pain. Alfie waits until Tommy stills again and then bends down slowly behind him.

The hand on his left heel is unexpected; Alfie's finger tickles as it rubs down the sole of Tommy's foot, making him flinch and lift. He realises a second too late that one thick book has been taken from the pile and discarded with a slap on the floor. Panic rises in his chest as his toes search for ground beneath him. Then a book is removed from the other side too and his grip on the bar above loosens; he tries to pull up and away again but his muscles are spent and he's powerless to stop gravity doing its work. He pants frantically — fingertips grappling for the bar above, toes searching for the touch of leather below — as he sinks a painful inch. A whine escapes him, then another and another, as he is forced to accept the deepening intrusion. He'd barely come to terms with the initial penetration and now _this_. The sounds he makes are deafeningly desperate, high-pitched and panicked, mocking his earlier resolve to endure this torment in silence (what a ludicrous, fanciful dream). He’s underestimated Alfie. Again. It hurts so much he feels sick.

“Shhhh,” he hears behind him as warm hands appear on either side; he shudders at the soothing touch, too gentle in comparison to the brutal intrusion. “Just relax. You look a picture, love,” Alfie coos, holding his hips until the shaking subsides. A kiss is placed to his right shoulder, soft and full of promise. There is a soft thump from within the bakery that makes Tommy flinch and Alfie laugh. “Just the stills, Thomas," Alfie assures him, "Just letting us know they’re listening." Tommy groans and lets his head drop downwards as his body slowly accustoms itself. "As am I,” Alfie adds. He tries to relax, to will his muscles to relent but there’s too much conflict; his arms are tiring above him as his feet strain for purchase on the books below. So much necessary tension in the rest of his body thwarts any attempt to loosen up. He tries to calm his racing heart at least, to focus on the kiss and the warm hands. Alfie knows how hard to push him. And when to stop. He tells himself that at least. “Alfie,” he starts but is quickly cut off by a finger on his lips. “Don't waste your energy talking,” Alfie tuts. "I've brought something here that might help." Moments later a belt is fastened across his face, his tongue pushes against the supple leather that's pulled tight between his teeth. He bites down and tests it as a buckle is fastened behind his head, face flushing with humiliation. It's unusual and demeaning and absurdly ... arousing. _Fuck_. Alfie has never gagged him before. Why would he? Alfie likes the sounds he makes. 

“Only sounds I wanna hear are your squeals, love,” the man says smoothly, as if reading Tommy's thoughts. He stands behind him and strokes Tommy’s cheek so gently it feels like a threat. Dread trickles inside him like water through a cracked rooftile, leaking down his spine, his stomach, causing him to kick as it reaches his toes. He has never squealed. _Moaned_ , certainly. _Whined_ , on occasion. Even _begged_ every once in a while. But squealed. No. Absolutely not. The very word conjures up something visceral, primal: the cries of a cornered fox or a slaughtered animal; the alarming sound of a car belt when it's just about to snap. His fear picks up momentum as that word repeats in his head, until he's so distracted he doesn't notice the next books being removed.

Fucking...Christ... _Jesus_... his hands slip further from the pull-up bar until only his fingertips can reach, barely maintaining enough tenuous grip to aid his balance and nowhere near enough to stop the incremental intrusion. He bites down hard on the leather, concentrating on the ache in his teeth not the stretch of his arse, and lets out a furious sound. Alfie just tuts behind him, "you thinking of tapping out?" he asks. _Yes_ , is the honest answer, but the condescension in Alfie's tone prevents Tommy admitting as much.

Alfie gives him a minute or two, stands back and just watches him hanging by his fingertips, helplessly impaled. Tommy fights back tears — of pain, of frustration, of fury — and wonders how long he can hold on. Not long is the answer, because the removal of two more books puts the pole above him completely out of reach and makes the next inch of penetration too fast and too hard for his shaky resolve to endure. His hands clasp at the door frame to his sides, fingers grappling hopelessly in an effort to stop his slide. His toes search desperately for the newly lowered ground as a muffled sob escapes him. The tears that accompany it are born as much of panic as of pain and escape down his face despite his eyes being clenched tight, just like the rest of him. His legs tremble beneath him, from what he isn't sure, but he can't stop the spontaneous reaction, however much he tries. He hears Alfie shift quietly behind him, breathing out " _fuuuuck_ ," in a voice filled with awe. Alfie waits, says nothing further, until the burning ache in Tommy's arse is approaching something closer to bearable. 

"Like a ballet dancer," he says eventually. "Look at you, virtually en pointe." There's a subdued delight in Alfie's voice; admiration for his enforced effort that makes Tommy whimper weakly. Silence stretches between them, tenuous and hard-earned (at least on Tommy's part) and then ... nothing. No more words, no more movement. Alfie seems to have conjured up hitherto unknown reserves of patience, as he stands and watches and waits. Tommy tries to concentrate on anything except the unforgiving fullness inside him. The familiar smell of the rum; the unlit bakery in front of him; the warm glow reflecting dully in the stills from a lamp he cannot see. And then he hears the soft splat; it should be barely audible and yet it rings like a bell in his ears. He looks down in shame to see the clear glob of precum that has landed on the concrete beneath him. A glistening thread dangles between his cock and the floor, like the finest strand of a spider's web. "Fuckin 'ell," Alfie wheezes behind him, and he groans in apprehension as he senses the man approach him again. Surely he's not going to take any more books away? He can't, he _seriously_ can't...

But Alfie doesn't bend, just reaches round and grabs Tommy's leaking cock, pulling it downwards gently, milking the clear liquid from him in a thin glistening stream. It makes him whine again, the shame, the need, the desperation to be freed, or held, or just ... fuck he doesn't even _know_. His head is an addled mess, as much as his aching body. He doesn't understand how Alfie knows precisely how to test him; how to break barriers he didn't know were there; to reach into the darkest shadows of his mind and braid his fears and inhibitions and desires into a deliciously terrifying rope with which he can hang himself. He feels like he's fucking hanged himself tonight. He whines again through his tears.

"Mahogany," Alfie says randomly, still stroking Tommy's cock (which is hardening embarrassingly quickly in the warm hand, despite everything else he feels). He taps the wood, the source of Tommy's torment, sending a dull vibration into his body that makes him draw in his breath.

"Cuban, I believe. Like the finest cigars. Only the best for you, my love," he says. "Relaxing beautifully now, you are. Not sure I'm gonna be enough for you after this, now I know how much you can take. With a little persuasion." Tommy flexes his thighs, sinking by a further fraction as his toes bow to the pressure of his weight. And Alfie's words. Alfie's pleased. Impressed even. Which has to make this bearable. Tight and hard and fucking huge but nothing's as bad as the first two inches.

Except Alfie seems to read his complacency, because his cock is quickly released from the warm grip and he feels another two books simultaneously swiped from beneath him. His feet dance in the air and the extra inch, ( _or two? It fucking feels like five_ ) is too much, too wide, too deep. He pushes against the door frame with both his arms in a futile attempt to pull up and off. A screech collects in his throat, high and long and agonised. He's fucking squealing, like Alfie said he would, like a terrified, injured animal. He tries to breathe, to pant, to accept, but the noise that emanates from his chest is high and pained and desperate and it's repeating over and over again until it sounds like an obscene echo in his own ears. He bites on the gag as hard as he can, stares up at the ceiling, instinctually seeking a distraction from the bruising, all-consuming penetration. "You need a distraction, darling?" Alfie asks, as if reading his startled mind, and of course he can't answer, can't do anything but flex his toes and grunt and make that shameful bloody noise.

Not that Alfie is looking for an answer anyway. He's reading Tommy like one of those books; threatening and promising, tormenting and responding. The crack of leather against his skin is a shock. It makes him clench onto the hard source of his pain and flinch and try to relax and fail and then ... crack ... it comes again, barely a second to recover. "Just to take your mind off things," Alfie murmurs behind him as the cracks turn into a volley of strikes laid vertically across each buttock. A belt or a strap or ... he doesn't even know, his brain has stopped processing anything, horrified and confused beyond belief until he can hardly breathe, has no idea who is making the sounds or where the air is coming from or why his cock is so hard. The final books are kicked from under him until he can feel the metal bar at the back of his thighs and he thinks he might actually pass out. That's when the leather drops to the floor and he feels Alfie's hands around his waist, across his stomach, fisting his cock, making him come shockingly hard and fast.

He's still spasming as he feels the pole beneath him drop, unclicking from the door frame and crashing to the floor. The sudden withdrawal is a startling relief and yet leaves him desperately empty. His strained muscles can't hold up his weight and he collapses backwards into Alfie's arms — pathetic and limp and too overwhelmed to care — like his limbs are made of rubber. Alfie lifts him just as he falls and carries him to a sofa, laying him on his back before looming over him with searching eyes that glisten like freshly-dug coal. He fumbles to remove the leather gag and falls onto Tommy's sore mouth with a softness that's bewildering. Tommy's too dazed to respond, to summon his lips and his tongue to react to the fervent licks and sucks. And so Alfie moves to words, muttering promises and praise into Tommy's neck, whispering in his ear. He knows what it means, when tenderness emanates from Alfie's every pore like this: he's worried he's gone too far. And maybe he has; maybe Tommy thought so too, ten minutes ago. But now? Now his head feels as light as a feather whilst his body's as heavy as lead (such disharmony should surely be unsettling and yet he feels only quiet elation). It's better than whiskey. Better than drugs. When Alfie stops stroking his hair and leans down to kiss him again he feels his body slowly reawaken, until he's kissing back. _Really_ kissing. Reassuring Alfie with the heat of his mouth in a way that he can't do with words.

"Guess you do have imagination," Tommy says when eventually they break off to breathe.

"Nothing I _ever_ imagine," Alfie rasps, "matches the reality of being with you." Tommy just swallows beneath him, terrified by how beautiful Alfie looks, so intense and lustful and adoring. Sometimes he feels like Alfie could eat him just with his eyes. Sometimes he'd like him to try. They fuck, after that, slowly, gently, awkward on the battered old sofa. It's deliciously sore and easy and if the steel-still sentries are calmly listening then they choose to keep their counsel (not that anyone would ever believe the softness that passes between two bad men in a moment such as this).

*****

Tommy doesn't even recall the journey home back to the Camden house, just that Alfie doesn't let him out of his sight for two whole days and nights. There's more food and less sex than he's ever thought normal but he's too sore and exhausted to care. Alfie's concern is needed at first but slowly becomes overbearing. He's actually happy when by the third morning Alfie growls at him for leaving the toothpaste open and proceeds to grumble about everything else thereafter.

He's still unusually relaxed when he arrives back in Birmingham, although it's another whole week before he can shift in his chair without any physical reminder. The lack of palpable soreness, when it comes, makes him feel surprisingly wistful. His laid-back attitude doesn't go unnoticed; Frances and Lizzie both enquire (the latter with eyebrows raised). He feels his cheeks flush at the questioning, at the memory of what Alfie conjured up, what he endured. 

"Da Vinci, you say?" Johnny Dogs sneers next time he's in Tommy's office, examining the newly framed print. "Since when were you into such classical fucking nonsense?"

"It was a gift," Tommy says as nonchalantly as possible as he pours himself a large drink.

"From someone who doesn't know you very well," Johnny chuckles to himself.

"From someone with _imagination_ , Johnny. Now fuck off and find me the Lees."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this shameless piece of smut, it feels a little debauched even by my standards (!) Apparently this is what my mind conjures up after a long and sleepless night. It's been a while so I hope you enjoyed, and please let me know either way.


End file.
